


At Parting

by starlords_assbutt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Historical, Artist Steve Rogers, Historical AU, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sexual Content, Writer Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlords_assbutt/pseuds/starlords_assbutt
Summary: There are few things in life so powerful as love...there are also few things so complicated.For the first time, Steve has found someone he undoubtedly could spend the rest of his life with. But, unfortunately, recognizing those feelings is basically the same thing as jinxing himself. Between facing the constant threat of a vengeful Howard Stark and navigating a secret relationship with his college sweetheart Bruce, Steve's life has become a bit of a roller coaster.And that's when he meets Bucky.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Howard Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**November 18th, 1940**

Steve Rogers was in love. The realization had been teasing at the corners of his conscience for weeks, but this morning it took firm hold in the form of a cup of coffee.

The smell brought him out of a deep sleep, at first unwelcome, but any irritation quickly dissolved to gratitude for the few extra moments in the warmth of his bed. It was from his favourite shop, Joanne’s, paper cup still hot to the touch. A note was taped to the side:

_So you’re not grumpy with Peggy. Again._

It was in that small gesture that Steve finally put a name to the feeling blooming in his chest. He had been waiting for this moment his whole life — waiting to feel not only love, but requited love. The thought brought a smile to his lips. He burrowed deeper into his nest of blankets, closing his eyes.

“I see my plan has backfired,” Bruce remarked, rubbing a towel over his wet curls. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “When someone brings you a coffee, it's typically a sign you should wake up.”

Steve resigned, propping himself up on his elbows.

“I’m up, I’m up. And thank you.”

Bruce grinned in response. “So, uh, it was nice. Spending the night for a change.” He fidgeted with the edge of the towel tied around his waist. “Maybe we could try it again sometime?”

“We’d better.” Steve grinned in return. They were taking a leap of faith, holding onto the hope that Steve’s new neighbour — his co-worker, Peggy — would look the other way if she caught the two of them together. After all, Steve had vouched for her, helping her get into their building for less than the usual rent.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asked, finally making the effort to crawl out of bed.

“Probably going to hole up in the library. I’ve got a big test on Friday.” Bruce was studying chemistry at NYU, where he was currently star pupil. It was on a hot afternoon almost three months earlier they met outside that very library. Steve had been rushing to submit an essay for his English literature course, just as Bruce stepped into his path, spilling iced tea all over his paper. It had taken some persuasion, but eventually Bruce managed to talk him into going for a consolatory drink.

That night they stayed out until sunrise, bonding over everything from the best spot near campus to find a bagel, to politics, to their favourite authors. For the next two weeks they spent nearly every spare moment getting to know each other better, until finally Steve took a leap of faith and kissed Bruce in the shadows of his apartment building.

And, as they got to know each other over the past few months, Steve quickly learned that Bruce often opted to spend his evenings in the library out of obligation and peer pressure more than an actual need to learn the material.

“Maybe I could convince you that there’s a better way to spend your Friday evening?”

“Go on,” Bruce responded.

“Well for starters, my plans don’t involve any books.” Steve crossed the room, watching a bead of water fall from the end of a curl down Bruce’s chest. He licked his lips. “My plans might go a little like this.” Steve kneeled between his knees, leaning in to kiss the top of Bruce’s chest. He pushed Bruce’s towel aside, and ran his hands gently up the length of his thighs.

“Don’t you have a job to get to?” Bruce laughed, leaning back onto his hands.

“My only job at the moment is right in front of me.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Bruce said softly, tilting Steve’s chin up toward his face. “Really, your jokes are so bad it’s killing me.” He smiled and leaned in, kissing Steve softly. Steve brushed his tongue over Bruce’s bottom lip, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Bruce responded in kind, his own hands busying themselves with the hem of Steve’s boxers.

“Steve?” A knock came from the front door. They both froze.

“Do you think we can ignore it?” Bruce asked quietly.

Steve sighed in response. “No, that sounds like Peggy. Which means she probably wants to get breakfast on the way to work.”

He stood, kissing Bruce once more. “Rain check?”

“You’d better.” Bruce whipped his backside with the towel he had been using on his hair. Steve grinned.

When he got to the door, Peggy was reapplying her lipstick with a small compact mirror.

“About time, Rogers.”

“Sorry, Pegs, I was still in bed. Can you give me a minute to get ready?”

She frowned, looking him over. When she arrived at his neck her face dissolved into a mix of understanding and embarrassment. “I see. Hurry up, then. Sorry to rouse you from your…slumber.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Steve rushed to the bathroom to brush his teeth, noting that he indeed had a large hickey gracing the left side of his throat. Great, he thought. Really subtle, Bruce.

He stuffed his sketchbook, charcoal, and a bruised apple into his bag, and tied a large scarf around his neck. Luckily, the air outside was brisk, snow covering the sidewalks and roads, so he wouldn’t look too out of place.

“You’re going to hear about this later,” he grumbled, pointing to his neck. Bruce blushed, looking down sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t help myself around you.”

Steve kissed him on the cheek. “Dinner, Friday. We both know you’re going to ace that test.”

“It’s a date.”

* * *

“I’m going for lunch, Steve!”

He hummed in acknowledgement, eyes glued to the page of the book resting in his lap. Peggy, leaned over his shoulder.

“My, my. The Picture of Dorian Gray?” Steve blushed, eliciting a laugh. She mimed zipping her lips shut and threw away an invisible key. “I’ll keep your secret, but I’m expecting you to tell me all about the girl who’s got you so…content?” She frowned. “Is this what it’s like when Steve Rogers is smitten? I must say, I miss the gloomy aura you usually carry around with you. I feel like I have to find a way to balance out the energy in here.”

Steve grinned. “My lips are sealed, too, I’m afraid.” He watched as Peggy shook her head, wrapping herself tightly in a rich blue coat.

“Happy and boring? Bring my old Steve back!” she called over her shoulder, the little bell hanging above the door jingling to announce her departure.

Steve closed his book. He had been content. But just as the weight of the world had seemed to lift so easily this morning with the sweet aroma of coffee, he could feel it creeping back in, hard and painful in the space between his ribs. What would he say to her when she returned? He considered whether she knew the truth, and if not, how she would handle it. He racked his brain for names or faces of girls he’d gone to school with, for a description vague enough she couldn’t attribute an identity of any customer or friend to it.

The bell chimed again, bringing a warm girly laugh in with a cold breeze.

“You two need to quit it! Really, I’ve had enough of your antics.”

Steve looked up from behind the counter.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“I certainly hope so. I’m looking for this book.” She passed him a folded note. The title _Frankenstein_ was spelled out in neat cursive.

Steve nodded. “Sure, follow me.”

“I’ll wait outside, Maria,” the taller of the two men said. He was slim, with a thin, dark moustache contouring the curve of his upper lip.

“You’ll freeze!”

“We’ll be fine, darling!” he called over his shoulder, already opening the door to the cold.

“My fiancé and his best friend,” the woman groaned, following Steve’s footsteps. “They’re like children when they get together. I only hope he’ll settle down soon.”

Steve chuckled. “Is the book for you?”

“A gift, actually. My friend is going to England by boat, I thought she might like something to read on her journey.”

“Long trip,” Steve remarked, scanning the shelf. There was a hole where the title should have been. “I swear I just put a copy out here the other day. Let me take a look in the records.”

“Wait.” The woman — Maria, Steve remembered — picked at the tips of her gloves. “Can you see them out the window?”

Steve peered around her. “Yes, the tall one’s just lit a cigarette.”

“Right.” She pursed her lips. “I’m not looking for Frankenstein in particular.” She reached past Steve and plucked a different book from the shelf. She traced its title with a delicate finger. “I’ve heard of this one. _Of Mice and Men_. Have you read it?”

Steve shook his head.

“That’s fine, I’ll take it anyway.” She reached into her coat pocket and passed him another, smaller piece of paper. This one was heavily creased, as though she had folded and refolded it many times. Steve opened it carefully, noting ink smeared across the page.

“This is for you?”

She nodded. “Yes, and please don’t say another word or I’ll start crying again.” Steve noticed mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes and delicate tear tracks left in her rouge. While he supposed she was hiding her upset well, he was surprised her fiancé seemed to be as oblivious as he was.

“Alright. I’ll leave this at the register with a woman named Peggy. She’ll be in tomorrow from eight till four, and she won't ask any questions, I promise.”

“Thank you.” The woman sniffed, running her hand over the cover of _Of Mice and Men_. “I’ll take this and be on my way, then.”

“It’s yours.” She returned a nervous smile, straightened, and slipped the book in her bag.

“Thank you.”

Steve watched as she returned to the street to join the two men. When he was sure they had disappeared down the next street, he moved to retrieve her book from the shelf. A picture of a small baby, swaddled in pale blue blankets smiled from the cover. Steve felt a pang of worry for the young woman.

The bell rang again.

“Alright, Steve — I’m ready! What’s her name?”

He smiled, shaking his head.

“Her name’s Peggy, and she’s dreadful. Nosy, bossy, she’s got a really pompous accent…”

“Well if that’s how you really feel then I guess I won’t be sharing these doughnuts.” She placed a small box on the counter, the smell of warm cinnamon and sugar making Steve’s stomach growl.

“…and she’s my favourite person in all of Brooklyn.”

“I would’ve hoped for New York, but it’ll suffice, I suppose. You don’t have to tell me now, but I will get all the dirty details out of you soon enough, Rogers.”

“It’ll take a lot more than doughnuts to break me.” He grinned, picking one up in spite of Peggy’s prying eyes.

Outside the two men from earlier were passing by the store again. Steve watched them as Peggy took to shelving a pile of discarded books. They were laughing, bumping shoulders as they walked down the streets.

“Peggy?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m leaving this book for a woman named Maria, she’ll be by to pick it up tomorrow. Don’t make a fuss when she comes in, okay?” Peggy slid beside Steve at the register.

“Ah, hiding a pregnancy, are we?”

“Yeah, and that tall guy out there seems to be the father, so if he’s with her hide it from him.”

She frowned. “That man? With the moustache?” She pointed out the window, and Steve nodded. “Huh. Well, it’s none of our business, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure I caught the pair of them fooling around in the back row of the cinema last week.”

Steve felt a blush rising up his neck, and he swallowed a lump. “You don’t say.”

Peggy placed a gentle hand on his arm, and smiled. “Don’t worry, Steve. Like I said, my lips are sealed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**November 24, 1940**

It was Steve’s day off, which meant it was an art day. He’d set out early in the morning for his own walking tour of the city, and landed at the museum. He’d quickly lost track of time, and now the wind knocked at the windows, threatening to throw them open and usher the rain in.

He sat concealed by the delicate marble bust of a Grecian man. Beyond the statue, a young couple studied a painting together. Steve could tell from their body language they hadn’t been together long — if he had to guess, he’d say this was their second or third date. There was nervous energy between them, tracked in the awkward moments when their words stumbled over each other, or when one of them laughed too loud and red bloomed across their cheeks.

For the past twenty minutes, he’d been trying to capture their character. The couple was delicate, airy — clumsy, even — but his lines were too bold and precise. He began again, charcoal dancing across the page. He was working on getting the coy angle her left ankle hooked behind her right when the couple began to walk away.

Steve sighed. The clock on the wall read 4:08 pm. He promised Bruce they’d see each other tonight, which meant he needed to be on his way home to freshen up about eight minutes ago. He packed his bag, buttoned his coat, and ducked into the cold.

* * *

Steve was soaked by the time he got in the door. Most of the walk home was spent hunched over his bag to spare his sketchbook, which was only made more difficult by the fact his asthma was off the charts. As he wiggled out of his wet sweater the phone rang.

“Hello?” he panted, hair dripping into his eyes.

“Hey, Steve. I’m running a bit late, so —“ there was a pause and the sound of pages rustling on the other end. Bruce’s voice was strained, and Steve guessed he was in the middle of some sort of equation. 

“Don’t worry about it. I just got home and I could use some extra time to clean up. This damp air isn’t doing my lungs any good.”

“Maybe we should stay in tonight?”

Steve paused. “Stay in? I didn’t know we were going anywhere.”

“Right. I thought I already asked you.” Bruce’s voice lowered, and from the change in background noise, Steve assumed he was shielding the phone with his hand. “Clint — you know, my friend from physics? — he told me about this place. It’s some sort of speakeasy. He said he’d meet us there; he’s a regular.”

“A speakeasy. You’re kidding me.” Steve laughed. “Bruce, can you really picture me in a speakeasy? Can you picture yourself going to a speakeasy? What’re we going to do in a place like that?”

“I don’t know. Dance, maybe? Drink? I just thought it would be nice to go out and do something that… That, you know, other people do.” He sighed.

Steve rubbed his face. “You’re sure Clint’s got it right? That this place is still friendly to people like us?”

“Clint is ‘people like us’.”

“Alright, fine. But you’d better not embarrass me, I’ve seen the way you dance.”

“No promises. I’ve been holed up in this library for days and I fully intend to let loose.” 

“Alright, genius. Get back to work.” Bruce laughed and hung up.

He went to the bathroom and drew a bath, letting the steam fill his lungs. He’d heard whispers of places like this still existing. As a kid he’d seen them as he walked through the city, people spilling out of doorways, intertwined with one another as the music carried on behind them. He wasn’t clear on all the politics, but he understood enough to know that the echoes of prohibition and the Depression were what put an end to people dancing and kissing and holding whoever they wanted. What would happen if they were caught?

He slid down the wall of the tub, submerging his face in the warm water. Through the cloudy water, he stared at his spindly legs. There were two purple bruises — one on each knee — staring back at him. He rose, sputtering. First the hickey last week, now this. 

The signs were already there for anyone to read, stained and carved and branded into his flesh.

* * *

“Hey, Clint! Get us another round while you’re at it!” Bruce called out over the music. Clint shot back a thumbs up in response.

“Will you dance with me?” 

Bruce grinned. “That drunk already, huh?”

“You wish.” Steve stood up, extending his hand. Around them, people were pairing up. Steve was admittedly a little drunk, but mostly he was exhilarated. The energy in the room inflated his troubled chest and made him feel alive. All around him were people sweating and laughing, swaying as they cheered each other, and any anxiety he’d been feeling about going out was forgotten.

Bruce stood, took Steve’s hand, and led him to the dance floor. Most of the time when they were beside each other Steve couldn’t help but notice the differences between them: how tall Bruce was and how broad his shoulders were; his tan complication and dark curls; how small Steve’s own hands were inside of his. But as Bruce pulled Steve into his chest, hands smoothing down his sides to land at his waist, Steve realized all of those things just made them fit together. He hummed contently and relished in the feeling of their bodies pressed tightly together. 

“I leave you two lovebirds alone for one minute and I find you groping each other.” Clint shoved a drink at Steve’s chest and grinned. 

“Ah, Barton, you’re just jealous,” Bruce retorted, taking a long sip of his drink. 

“Easy there, Brucey,” Clint clapped Bruce on the back and snaked his way through the crowd to find a dance partner of his own. 

It didn’t take long for Steve to slip into the warmth of intoxication. He would never openly call himself a romantic, but that was more out of fear than anything. That feeling that stirred deep in his chest as he read a good book or studied the lines of a beautiful couple — he knew what it meant. And here, in this drunken crowd, dancing, he felt whole. There was a word he’d read before, _jouissance_. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was what the French were getting at, but it was the only word strong enough he could think of to encapsulate the rush of emotions brought on by the feel of the sticky floor beneath his feet or of Bruce’s breath at the nape of his neck.

“Thank you,” he murmured into Bruce’s chest.

He smiled down in return. “For what?”

“This. Us.” 

The song changed, and Bruce put his drink down to lace his hands behind the small of Steve’s back. They danced for a few more songs before Bruce excused himself to find the bathroom. 

Steve ordered another drink at the bar and managed to make it to a vacant table despite his tilted vision. Across the room, Clint was busy chatting up a handsome older man. He was about twice Clint’s size with a thick beard. It was hard to imagine what it would be like to leave this place, to step back into the cold and damp reality beyond the doors. He wondered how Clint could manage to proposition men who outside would sooner break his jaw than caress it, how he could fall into the arms of new lovers so freely, and pretend they’d never met moments later. 

He smiled despite his melancholy and took another sip of gin. His eyes landed on the door where two men were stumbling in, practically on top of one another. He squinted. There was something familiar in their body language, the ease with which they walked together. The taller man turned, and Steve recognized him instantly from the bookstore. His moustache wasn’t waxed and the top buttons of his dress shirt were unbuttoned, but even despite his unkempt appearance, he stood out from the crowd.

The moustached man pressed his partner into the wall and dragged his tongue openly up his neck, one hand poised against the wall, the other reaching down to cup the man’s crotch. Their behaviour was outlandish and lewd, almost daring someone to cast a dirty look or say under their breath.

“I see I’ll be carrying you home tonight.” Bruce took a seat and helped himself to Steve’s drink. He grimaced. “Ugh, I don’t know how you can drink this stuff.”

Steve took the glass and took another sip of gin. “See those two men? They came into the shop the other day with a woman. She’s engaged to the taller one.”

“You mean the guy with the moustache? That’s Howard Stark. We were freshmen together but he dropped out right away to start a company with family money.”

Steve frowned. Across the bar, the man — Howard — turned in his direction. He leaned toward his companion and said something in his ear. The man looked over, too, looking slightly concerned.

“They know I’m here,” Steve said softly. His heart caught in his throat.

“I’m not following you here, Steve.” Bruce took Steve’s hand. “Did they say something to you the other day?”

“No. They left the store quickly, it’s just… I guess I forgot this was a possibility, that coming here could have repercussions.” 

“Yeah, I get it. I don’t know how Clint does it.”

“Did you know him well?” Steve asked.

“Not as friends or anything. He made my life hell for a little while, but I think he just likes to get a rise out of people. He’s a smart man. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t hear a lot more about him in the next few years.”

“Well, that may be true, but I’m sure he doesn’t have half the brains you’ve got hiding in there,” Steve said coyly, gently tapping Bruce’s temple.

“You trying to flatter me, Rogers?” 

Steve grinned. “Is it working?”

Bruce responded by running his hand along Steve’s thigh under the table. He leaned in to nuzzle the spot beneath Steve’s ear, gently biting it. “Do you think it would make me a bad friend if I left Clint here to his own devices?”

Steve scanned the bar, eyes finding Clint grinding against the bearded man from earlier. “I think you’ve already done that.”

“Good. Then I’m taking you home.” Bruce took Steve’s hand and guided him back into the real world.

* * *

Steve somehow managed to make it through his shift the next day despite a pounding headache and the inability to hold anything down. As he locked up he decided, hangover or not, he was in a mood good enough to make the walk to Joanne’s for an afternoon espresso and some drawing. 

After the speakeasy, he and Bruce couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They’d barely got through the door before Bruce was pushing him against the wall, hands scrambling to untuck his shirt. Steve busied himself with Bruce’s belt, fingers clumsy with lust and gin.

“Need some help?” Bruce huffed in his ear. He’d moved onto Steve’s belt, racing him.

“Oh, god,” Steve breathed. Bruce’s hands had found purchase on his cock, which was hard and slick with precum. He thrust into Bruce’s hand, who in turn began moving it lazily up and down. Steve writhed in his grip. The gin-induced fog was clouding his ability to keep alert, to stop himself from giving in to the warmth pooling low in his stomach. His hands fluttered along Bruce’s chest, his arms, his face, searching for something to keep his attention. He settled for reaching behind Bruce, cupping his ass and pulling their bodies closer together so that he could feel Bruce’s erection against his hip.

“What do you want, honey?” Bruce asked as he worked his thumb over the sensitive flesh at the tip of Steve’s cock, reaching his other hand down to cup Steve’s balls. “Tell me. I’ll give you anything you want.”

Steve’s tongue seemed too large for his mouth. He needed to work it, remind it how to speak. He gripped Bruce’s wrists, pulling them away from his body, and dropped to his knees. He shoved Bruce’s shirt aside to nip at his hips.

“What I want,” Steve mumbled between kisses down Bruce’s thighs, “is for you to make love to me.” He tugged at Bruce’s boxers, pulling them down to rest mid-thigh, and ran his tongue from the base to the tip of his cock. He did this over and over until the fingers that had delicately combed through his hair were grabbing it tightly, knuckles massaging his head. He started to suck, taking as much as he could in his mouth, hands gripping the back of Bruce’s thighs for leverage.

“If you want me to make love to you we’d better get to the bedroom.” Bruce tilted Steve’s chin up toward him. “Come on.” 

Steve rose, swaying slightly.

“Forget the bedroom,” Steve mumbled, turning to face the front door. Bruce didn’t hesitate. He pulled Steve’s pants down to his knees and used his spit-slicked fingers to start working him open. It wasn’t long before Steve was panting, begging to feel him. 

It was over in minutes, both of them too worked up to make it last. Bruce thrust hard a few times before he was filling Steve, who had already made a mess of the door. 

The scene played over and over in his head as he settled into his favourite table near the front of Joanne’s. His hand was itching to sketch from memory. He had never drawn the naked form. He knew it was common practice for artists — a part of any traditional education, even — but part of him worried it would be yet another admission of guilt, like the bruises on his knees or the fading bite on his neck…that through drawing the crest of the pelvic bone or the ridges of the abdomen his desire would be translated into that universal language spoken through art.

Outside a young woman leaned over a baby carriage, fussing over her crying baby. Steve flipped his sketchbook open, rushing to put lines to the page. She was beautiful, with auburn hair tucked into the back of a long dress coat. She had a large nose that turned up at the end to give her an elfish look. Steve hummed, trying to get the angle just right. 

“Have I seen you somewhere before?” He looked up to find Howard Stark grinning wickedly from the table next to him. He shook his head, trying to play aloof. He could feel the air escaping his lungs, panic muffling the sounds of the coffee shop. He continued drawing.

“Her? Really?” Howard laughed. “You wanna draw someone, find a model whose beak doesn’t make up their whole face.”

“That’s not how you talk about women.” Steve bristled, charcoal hovering over the page. He’d slipped, given way to confrontation. Howard cocked a brow and moved in to view the sketch. The smell of coffee and department store cologne wafted off of him.

“Looks pretty good to me.” Howard sat back down and sipped his coffee. “I could swear we’ve met, and I’m pretty good with faces. Where’d you go to school?” 

Howard was baiting him. His tone was easy and friendly, but his eyes told a different story. He realized that Howard must have followed him to Joanne’s, that perhaps he’d been watching him since the bookstore. 

“I didn’t, much. I was sick a lot,” he replied quietly. He worked to keep the nerves out of his voice. 

“Ah, well that’s not it then. Did you used to go with Jane?” Another smile.

“Never gone with anyone.”

Howard snorted. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Handsome fella like you?”

Steve ignored him and packed his bag. He knew there was no getting out of a physical confrontation, and figured it was better to get it over with sooner rather than later. 

“Seriously? Why not?” Howard tried again.

“Thanks, Joanne. See you later,” Steve called to the woman behind the counter. Howard followed.

“Wait — I’ve got it! The bookstore?” 

Steve winced. Here it was. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, balled tightly, and rounded the corner out of view of the shop windows.

“So what if it was?” 

He’d barely got the words out before Howard was wrenching him into an alley and slamming him into the brick siding. 

“I’m only gonna say this once: I hear anything about what you saw, I will hunt you down and cut your tongue out.”

Steve shook his head. “What would I say? I’m as guilty as you.”

“I’m not guilty of anything,” Howard growled. He pulled back, causing Steve to crumple. 

The next thing Steve knew, Howard’s fist connected with his jaw, and he was falling to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. There we go, my first attempt at some smut. Also I am realizing that this all may be very OOC, but this story has been in my brain for ages and I can't help it. Any constructive criticism is very welcome, but please be kind because I watched CMBYN 4 times this week and I am emotionally fragile lol.
> 
> The idea of them going to speakeasy was loosely researched, so please forgive any glaring historical inaccuracies. From what I found, NY had a thriving gay scene in the 1920s during prohibition, but animosity grew as it came to an end and the Depression settled in. People started to blame the gay community as the reason for so much financial hardship, and homophobia skyrocketed. 
> 
> Stay safe, everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, buddy — you okay?”

Steve blinked, trying to still his swimming vision. He frowned.

“Clint?”

“Yours truly.” He popped the collar on his jacket as it started to rain. “Think you can try standing up?” 

Steve nodded, and Clint offered him a steadying hand. He wondered how long he’d been out. There was a puddle where his head had been and the water was tinted pink. Clint held out a package of cigarettes.

“No, thanks. Asthma.”

Clint nodded and lit one for himself. Based on the pain that shot through his skull at his jaw’s movement, he presumed his injuries were not pretty. He gestured to his face.

“How bad is it, then? Think Bruce’ll give me a lecture?”

Clint barked out a laugh. “If I were you, I’d steer clear of loverboy for the next few days. Between this and finals, you might give him an aneurysm.”

“Great,” Steve mumbled. 

Clint clapped him on the back. “So, what the hell happened here?”

“Do you know a guy named Howard Stark? Bruce said he used to go to your school.” 

Clint barked out a laugh. “How could I forget? That asshole used to beat me up every chance he got. Before first bell; for my lunch money; during spare; if I sat down in the wrong seat in the cafeteria; if I sat down in the wrong seat in math cla—“

“Wait. You knew him in highschool?”

“Unfortunately. Bastard followed me to uni, too. He wasn’t so bad there, I think he’d finally smartened up.” He blew smoke toward the sky and coughed. “What’s he got to do with this?”

Steve sighed. “I was helping this woman look for a book the other day. She said she was his fiancée. But when we were out dancing the other night, I saw him.”

“What, like on the walk home?”

“No, in the bar. He was with another guy, same one who came with him and the fiancée to look for books.”

“Wait — Howard was in the bar?” Clint’s eyebrows raised to punctuate each word. “You’re telling me that Howard Stark is —?”

Steve could hear the names that people called men like Howard or Clint or Steve suspended in the air between them. Words that had been spat at them in schoolyards, in alleys, in bars. Words that were always followed by fists or broken bottles.

“Well, shit.” A thin plume of smoke curled out of the corner of his mouth.

“Said he’d cut my tongue out if I told anyone what I saw at the bar.”

Clint scoffed. “Figures. Fuckin’ coward.” 

Steve shrugged and picked his bag up from the ground. 

“They’ve got a baby on the way. I guess he figures he’s got a lot to lose.”

“And we don’t? Old Howie’s a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. He knows just as well as you do that if you so much as breathed the wrong way around here it’d be a death wish.”

“So he’s just a run of the mill bully.” 

“As far as I’m concerned. I’d just lay low, try not to go out alone.”

“I’m not a coward, Clint. I’m not going to hide in fear from a man like that.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Come on, let’s get you home."

—

“What happened to you?” Bruce’s hands flitted over Steve’s face, over his split lip and purpling eye. He finally settled on bracing his hands on either side of Steve’s face, pulling him into the warm apartment. 

“Nothing.” He pressed his lips to Bruce’s cheek and wiggled out of his grasp to head to the kitchen. He pulled a beer out of the fridge and collapsed onto the couch.

“Do you know anything about this?” Bruce asked as Clint brushed past him to take a beer from Steve.

“Hey man, take it easy. I just pulled him out of the gutter.”

Bruce shook his head, going back to the stove where Steve could smell the sweet aroma of fresh tomato sauce in the making. Clint took a spot next to Steve on the couch.

“Smells good.”

Bruce ignored him, pointing a saucy spoon in Steve’s direction. “What am I going to do with you?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“You say that every time, Steve.” He turned his attention back to the stove, where his sauce was starting to bubble up and splatter the counter.

Bruce had a point. The only reason this wasn’t escalating into a full-fledged argument was that Clint was playing the role of silent mediator. He knew he had a way of finding fights, but that was only because he couldn’t stand to walk away when something needed to be done. 

It was something they both liked to forget about the day they met: Bruce had been the one to run into Steve, but he had been in just as much of a rush to pick a fight with a professor for harassing a girl in his English Lit class. The decision landed him in the Dean’s office with a letter for expulsion. At the time, Bruce commended him for his strong moral code, but lately, that respect was wearing thin.

“I know I say it a lot, but this really wasn’t my fault.” 

Bruce turned and held his gaze, a small wrinkle forming between his brows. Steve knew it meant he was trying to find a way to calm down before he said something he’d regret. 

“He’s telling the truth.” They both looked to Clint, who was adjusting his hair in the little mirror that hung next to the door. “It was Stark. Now you two make up and eat your pasta.”

He flashed them a grin and ducked out the door.

“Go on then, let’s hear it,” Bruce sighed.

Steve filled him in on the details he’d left out that night at the bar. He watched as tension built in the muscles in Bruce’s shoulders while he strained the pasta and added sauce. When he finished, Bruce didn’t speak until he had set two steaming bowls on the table.

“Here,” he offered, motioning to the empty chair. Steve obliged and starting twirling spaghetti onto his fork. The sauce was thick and sweet, and his stomach growled contently. 

“That bastard.” Bruce pushed the noodles around in his bowl.

“I’m not worried about me, Bruce. I’m worried about that woman — Mary. If he could do this to me, what could he do to her? To her baby? He has to be stopped.” 

Bruce shook his head. 

“I’m worried about you, Steve. Even when you’re the victim you’re still trying to find a way to play the hero. It’s gonna get you killed!”

Steve’s whole face was pulsing and hot. He wondered if it was anger or a fever. 

“That’s not a reason to stand down.”

They spent the rest of the meal in silence, and as Steve cleared the dishes away Bruce mumbled an excuse about needing to study and left. Steve spent the evening doing everything he could think of to keep his mind occupied, until finally at 1 am he forced himself to go to bed. Each time he closed his eyes he was back in the alley with Howard staring him down, and every time he opened them he felt the weight of unspoken words heavy on his chest. The third time he woke up gasping, clutching at his throat before he realized that the reason he couldn’t breathe was that he was sobbing. 

He almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation. It was funny, how quickly your life could unravel. He and Bruce were happy. There was a rhythm to their relationship, something steady Steve could depend on. Their tempers balanced each other out; they could read each other well enough to steer around the big arguments and find solace in the little jabs they took at each other to smooth the tension. But a rift formed the day he saw Howard, and he could feel it growing. It made him realize two things.

The first was that no matter how much or for how long he loved Bruce, they would never get to live the way that other people who loved each other could. It was something he’d paid little attention to until he thought of the ring on Mary’s finger, or recognized the desperation in Howard’s eyes in the alley. People like him — like Steve, like Bruce — weren’t allowed to be happy. They were allowed to play make-believe with women whose hearts they’d break and watch from a distance as their soulmate climbed into bed each night with someone else. The second thing was the reminder that men like Howard were out there, willing to do anything to distance themselves from the only people who understood how they felt. 

Steve wiped the last tears from the corner of his eye, swollen and blue. He felt angry, sure, but mostly he felt an ache in his chest for that man Howard would undoubtedly hurt. The one who would watch on as his best friend married that beautiful woman, as he held their newborn baby. The man who would never know what it felt like to come home at night to the person who knew him better than anyone else.

He padded across the cold floor to the phone. It rang twice before Bruce picked up.

“Hey.” Steve found himself struggling to choke down another angry sob. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about everything that’s happened, and about… about us.”

“Us, in a good way?”

“I don’t want us to hide, Bruce. It isn’t right.” His heart thumped in his ears. “I want you to move in with me. We’ll make it work.”

“Steve.” Bruce’s voice was quiet on the other end of the line. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t want us to end up like Howard. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Okay. Promise me you’ll get some sleep after you hang up.”

“I’ll try.”

There was a long pause. Steve wondered for a moment if this had all been a fever dream, was about to pinch his leg just to be sure when there was a rustling on the other end.

“Steve?” Bruce’s voice was small.

“Yes?”

“I love you. I want you to remember that, regardless of what we decide to do.”

There it was, Steve thought. The words he’d dreamed about, breathed into existence, floating through a telephone wire. They were an electric shock, both exhilarating and paralyzing.

“I love you, too.” 

Steve hung the phone back in its cradle and buried himself beneath his comforter.

It took him a long time to drift off, and when he finally did, his mind was riddled with visions a new life.


	4. Chapter 4

**November 26, 1940**

When Steve was a kid, he was always sick. Some nights as he lay sweating through his sheets, he could see in his mother’s eyes she feared it was the end. On nights like this, she would go to the little bookshelf in their living room, find a book, and nestle in beside him. Sometimes he’d protest, weak hands urging her to stay away so she wouldn’t catch whatever illness he was battling, but she would never listen.

Her voice was music. No matter the genre, it would crescendo and waltz through different tones, embodying each character and carrying their words with gusto. Steve didn’t take his first trip to the cinema until he was in his teens, but when he finally sat next to a pretty girl from school with a bag of popcorn in his lap he was left with disappointment that the moving pictures couldn’t evoke the emotion his mother’s voice could.

The first time he picked up a pencil with the intent to produce something serious, he was nearly sixteen. He wanted to reproduce the visions his mother conjured and share them with the world. Every night for a month he asked her to tell him stories of her childhood, marriage, friends, family, her fondest memories — any prompt he could think of. As she spoke he envisioned every smile, every tear, every moment coming together as the hairline strokes that wrinkled her eyes or lent to the familiar bend of her fingers around a cigarette. When he finally showed her the piece, she touched her fingers to the woman in the picture and wept.

She framed it above her nightstand. When she finally succumbed to her illness weeks before his twenty-first birthday, she held his hand and gazed at her portrait.

“Steve,” she murmured. “You see the world through your heart.”

Her words were echoing through his ears as he struggled to make it through his shift at the bookstore. It was a cold day, which meant it was slow for the store. He contemplated selecting a book from the stacks to read, but it would never be the same as his mother’s voice guiding his hand. He sighed and fished his sketchbook out of his bag.

“Pegs — tell me a story.”

She looked up from across the store where she was shelving new stock. 

“About what?”

“Anything.” He shrugged. “Tell me about the first person you met in America.”

“Hmm.” She brushed her hands on her work apron, and leaned against the casing. “Well, I suppose it was one of the other girls in my boarding house. She was cold, at first. It always felt like she was calculating her next move rather than listening to what I had to say. She had been shipped off to America when she was only four years old. In fact, one day she told me it was because she was in training to be a spy.”

“A spy?”

“I know,” Peggy laughed. “But that’s what she was like — she could tell you something wicked and leave you wondering if you were in on the joke or the subject of it.”

“Did you become friends?”

She smiled. “I suppose we did. We went dancing one night a few months after I came to America. There was this boy who would not stop trying to get my attention, and eventually, he found a way to lead me to the dance floor. 

“He tried to kiss me at the end of the night and when I stopped him he got angry. And then she was there. She punched him square in the jaw. She’d left her date mid-kiss down the street. He was appalled by what she’d done, but she didn’t care. She just told him to get lost.”

“And that’s when you knew?”

“That’s when I knew.” She shook her head. “You should have seen her.”

“I wish I had. She sounds…” he searched for the right word, failing to find something that described the woman he pictured. “Enigmatic?”

“That, she is.”

She continued telling him stories throughout the day. They were only interrupted once by someone picking up an order, and then suddenly, it seemed, it was time to clock out.

“Steve?”

“Hmm?”

She pursed her lips. He watched as she carefully composed her face. “Do you think you and your friend would like to come around for dinner sometime?”

He felt heat rise up his neck.

“My friend?”

“Yes, that nice young man with the glasses.”

“Ah, Bruce. Right. That’s very kind of you, Peggy, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.” He shoved his arms through his coat and fumbled with his scarf.

“I invited you, didn’t I? Besides, I’ve been looking for a reason to try out a new recipe.”

Steve’s thoughts were colliding, making it difficult to form a coherent excuse.

“Steve — please, come. I’ll invite my friend, too.” She put a hand on his forearm and held his gaze.

“Alright. Thanks, Peggy, I’ll ask him.” 

She nodded and left. Across the street a young woman stood with her back to the store, smoking. Peggy joined her and they crossed the street together, arm in arm. 

* * *

It was another rainy day in Brooklyn, and Bruce stood at the door to Steve’s apartment, soaked to the bone.

“What are you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet a roommate?” Bruce gave him a half-smile.

“Does that mean…” Steve trailed off, cold fingers fumbling with the lock.

“Let me.” Bruce forced the lock and pushed the door open with his shoulder. “Does this door always stick when the first signs of winter show?”

Steve shrugged. “Pretty much.” 

“Noted. And the answer to your question is maybe.”

Steve tried to keep the disappointment from showing on his face. 

“You know I want to say yes, Steve. But we can’t rush into this. We need a plan, people in this building we can trust, an alibi…So, for now, it’s maybe.”

Steve sighed and sat at the dining table. 

“Well, we may be able to put some of those items into motion. Peggy asked us to go around for dinner with her and a friend.”

“Steve — in case you’ve completely forgotten what a social life looks like — that’s an offer for a double date.”

“I didn’t think of it that way when she asked.” Steve frowned. “When she said her friend was coming I just…I thought maybe she was suggesting something else. Like she already knew something.”

“And you never thought maybe you were just reading into things?”

“Says the one who presumes everyone wants to take him out,” Steve jeered. 

“Touché. So what do you think she was saying?”

“She told me about one of her friends today, and the way she spoke got me thinking that maybe…”

“You think they’re best friends the way we’re best friends?”

“Is this your way of saying I’m not _actually_ your best friend?”

“Ha-ha. Well, if you’re sure this isn’t a disaster in waiting, I’ll go.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll tell her Saturday, then?” 

Bruce hummed as he rummaged through the fridge. “I suppose tonight’s too soon? There’s not a whole lot in here, Steve.”

His stomach growled in response. “Up for a trip to Mario’s?”

“Do you know me at all?”

* * *

Mario’s was a little diner that served the best meatloaf that could put Steve’s mother to shame. He’d come here for the first time on a date with a girl in high-school. Her name was Natasha, and she had a way of speaking that assured him she was always two steps ahead in their conversation. At the end of their date, he walked her home, her hand tucked on his arm. When he leaned in to kiss her cheek she took a step back and tilted her head.

“You don’t have to be a gentleman, you know.”

“Did I do something wrong?” he stammered. She shook her head and put her hand on his cheek.

“Not to me, no. I mean you don’t have to do things just because they’re expected of you.”

She didn’t break eye contact as she stepped back. 

“Do you, uhm, not want to see me again?” He asked softly.

“Do you want to see _me_ again?”

“Of course.”

She sighed. “Steve, would you ever want to go steady with me?”

“I —“

“Don’t answer that. Just think about it.”

She went inside.

He did think about it. He still thought about it. At the time he was sure he’d made some sort of critical mistake, but now he thought maybe she had seen right through him.

“Good Lord,” Bruce mumbled through a mouthful of meatloaf. Steve grinned. 

“I didn’t know He worked in the kitchen.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. 

Steve worked on his slice, swirling each bite through the gravy flooding his plate. He realized he’d never told Bruce about Natasha, and wondered if Bruce had seen anyone before him. The topic wasn’t off-limits, it was just difficult to broach. How did you go about admitting you had used someone? How did you reconcile that you had prioritized your own need to pass over someone else’s heart? 

And then there was that relentless, nagging fear: Had she figured it out? Would she tell? It was happening all over again with Peggy. She and Natasha both had that same, all-knowing look; that same coy but kind way of speaking.

“Ugh, I don’t think I can move after that.” Bruce rubbed a hand over his distended belly. “What do you think — should we get some dessert?”

Steve grinned. “How did I know you were going to ask that?”

“Is that a no?”

He caught the eye of the waitress behind the counter. 

“Could we get a slice of rhubarb?” he called. She nodded and retreated to the kitchen.

“Ordering for me, Rogers?”

“It took you long enough to commit the meatloaf; I wasn’t about to take a repeat on dessert.”

“Tough, but fair.” Bruce leaned back into the booth and started rubbing Steve’s calf with his foot under the table. “Maybe tonight you could order me around.”

“I thought we talked about this.” Steve leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You’re very bad at dirty talk.”

Bruce reddened. 

“Was that really dirty talk?”

“Oh come on, that was clearly an attempt.”

The waitress came by and dropped the pie on the table. They smiled and thanked her, and started eating. 

“Okay, maybe it was an attempt,” Bruce continued once she was out of earshot. 

“And maybe, despite it being a very poor attempt, it worked.” 

* * *

“Steve,” Bruce moaned. He had a soft voice; the timbre carried his confident words all the while revealing his insecurities. Steve knew Bruce was afraid of his own emotions, worried they’d betray him somehow. It was moments like this, when he trembled beneath his fingers, that Steve worshipped the beauty of that voice. He smiled softly, gently pressing his lips against Bruce’s inner thigh while he caught his breath. He worked him with his right hand, slowly trailing his mouth back along Bruce’s hip bones, above the nest of dark hair that surrounded his cock. 

“God,” Bruce breathed again. Steve took it as his cue to get back to work, tongue lapping at the swollen tip. He tightened his grip slightly on the way down and relaxed it on the way up for a few strokes and then followed suit with his mouth. His own erection throbbed painfully, and it took all his strength not to rut against the sheets tangled around Bruce’s lower thighs. He counted backwards from 50 in his head, slowly, each second stretching by like an eternity. As he approached 17 he could feel Bruce’s hips start to struggle beneath him. He stopped.

“Take me.”

Bruce opened his eyes. He looked at Steve, eyes fixing on his swollen lips. Steve pushed himself onto his knees and shifted so he was straddling Bruce’s hips. He kissed him, their tongues lapping, teeth nipping at lips. Bruce’s hands smoothed up the back of his thighs to rest on his ass, massaging his cheeks.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked. Steve nodded fervently and then gasped at the feeling of a finger at his entrance. His cock jerked at the sensation.

“Please,” he mumbled, diving his head forward into the crook of Bruce’s neck. Steve sank backward, fucking himself with Bruce’s fingers for a few moments before growling into his ear, “I gave you an order, didn’t I?”

Bruce’s hand paused, fingers retreating. He spat into his other palm, gave his cock a few quick jerks, and then thrust up into Steve. He inhaled sharply. Bruce retreated slowly, confusing Steve’s hiss as a sign to slow down when it was a sign he was nearly spent. 

“Fuck, fuck…” Bruce’s voice trailed off as Steve took over again, burying him deep inside with hips that rolled in slow, calculated circles. He watched as Bruce’s dark lashes fluttered, eyes trying to decide whether to settle on the vision of Steve taking him, or Steve’s face twisted with pleasure. 

Steve could feel his orgasm coming to its peak, cock leaking as it bounced between them.

“Come for me,” he whispered. 

Bruce nodded frantically, hands grabbing at Steve’s waist, pulling him down as hard as he could as if their bodies might meld together if he tried hard enough. Steve could feel him thrusting up, the little motions hitting that sweet spot inside of him once, twice, three times and then Bruce was crying his name, and he was spilling over, too.

They lay there for a few moments, Steve slumped over, panting against Bruce’s sweaty chest. 

“Stay with me?”

Bruce chuckled. 

“Is that a question or a demand?”

Steve sighed contently, fingers tracing the little valley between Bruce’s pecs. 

“A request. Stay with me and let’s do this again in the morning.”

“I have class at 8 am.”

“So you’ll leave at 7.”

“Which means we’d need to be up by 6…”

Steve rolled off of him.

“What I’m gathering is that there’s no point in sleeping tonight.”

Bruce brushed the hair off of Steve’s forehead before kissing it. “If I fail this quiz, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal. And if you don’t, we’ll do this again to celebrate.”

“Deal,” Bruce murmured against his cheek. 

It wasn’t long before they traded their plans of a long night of passion for sleep with tangled, sweaty limbs.

* * *

“Morning, Pegs,” Steve called on his way to the backroom.

“Someone’s awfully chipper!” She followed in his footsteps. “Big night?”

Steve cocked a brow. “Are you asking what I think you're asking?”

“I — no. No, I meant did you —“

“Relax, I know ladies aren't supposed to talk about those things.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “But yes.”

“Steve!” She grinned. “I want details! How did you meet? How long has this been going on for?”

“My lips are sealed, I'm afraid.” He sat at the stool behind the register, thinking carefully about his choice of words. “But if it's any consolation, Bruce and I are available for dinner Saturday.”

She paused for a moment, and then a smile broke out across her face. 

“We're looking forward to it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**December 1st, 1940**

Of course, Bruce aced the test. He passed the graded paper to Steve for inspection at breakfast a few days later.

“What’s this note mean?” _See me in my office hours_ was scrawled in red ink next to _100%_ circled three times.

“Well,” Bruce started as he poured another cup of coffee, “it means I have a job.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “Isn’t this the professor who hates everyone?”

“That’s the one. He said I’m the only one who’s ever aced that test.” He spread a generous amount of butter on his toast and attempted to conceal a grin. “I guess you could say that he’s…impressed.”

“When did you get so humble?” Steve grinned and leaned over the table to kiss Bruce on the cheek. “Whats the job?”

“It’ll be in his lab. It’s a six week position — paid — starting the first week of summer break.”

“Paid as in ‘thanks for your contributions, here’s a recommendation letter’? Or paid as in ‘you can afford to eat more than butter noodles for dinner’?”

“The latter.” He brushed curls from his forehead. They were getting long, but Bruce refused to get a haircut until he had to on account of his student’s budget. He raised his eyebrows and grinned, obviously reading Steve’s mind. “Yes, this will be going.”

“Going?”

“Not _going,_ going. Jeez, you should’ve just seen the panic in your eyes. Just, you know, a trim.”

“I’m really proud of you, Bruce. This is great news.” He squeezed his hand. “Maybe I could take you out to celebrate?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to back out of the plans you made with Peggy?”

Steve poked at the eggs on his plate, causing the yolk to break and run down into his toast. Bruce had spent all but one night out of the past week at his place. It had been amazing — and not only because stealing body heat was an easy way to cut down on utility bills. It had felt like he was building a home. But his proposition remained unanswered, and the dinner with Peggy and her friend had finally arrived. He had gone from feeling hopeful to realizing this was all one big test of faith, that the future of his relationship rested on a meal with a friend from work and a woman he’d never met.

“What, we can’t go around to hers first and then go to the bar after?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Bruce stood and started to clear his plate. “Besides, for all we know we may have to drink our way through the meal.”

He kissed Steve on the cheek and went to the bathroom. When he heard Bruce turn on the shower he pushed his plate out of the way to rest his face in his hands. It was only eight in the morning and he had the day off, which meant approximately ten agonizing hours until he and Bruce had to sit at Peggy’s dinner table pretending to be nothing more than a pair of good friends.

* * *

Steve managed to occupy himself with a book of poetry until about half past nine. He was looking for some sort of inspiration, hoping to start on a new art project to keep busy. Unfortunately, his eyes had skimmed the pages at best, sometimes going over passages two or three times before he had even the vaguest idea what he’d read.

Eventually, after putting the book down and settling on the idea of attempting a mid-morning nap, he realized he had no idea what he was supposed to wear to Peggy’s. It was a small thing, but it was important, nonetheless. What said ‘I respect you and therefore want to be a respectable dinner guest’ but didn’t border on ‘I look like this because I care about what you think I look like’? He realized it was a blurry line — and probably futile, anyway — but with hours to wallow in anxiety over the dinner, he reasoned it was probably best to give in and scour his closet.

Some forty minutes later, he’d settled on a white button down, brown suspenders and slacks, and his best navy tie. He looked himself over in the mirror, hoping he’d made the right choice. In this light, his face took on a pallor against the stark white of his shirt. His fingers pressed against the glands on each side of his neck out of unconscious habit, and then his underarms. They seemed fine, but was that a tickle in the back of his throat? Or was the air just dry?

The clock on his bedside table ticked in the background, and he reasoned that this was likely a bout of stress-induced hypochondria. He sighed. The rain was relentless, which put the idea of going across town to the museum out of the question. He grabbed his raincoat and set out for Joanne’s with his drawing supplies.

* * *

Steve was trying to convince himself that an espresso wouldn’t worsen his nervous jitters, but the way his hands trembled even after he’d finished shaking out his umbrella wasn’t very encouraging.

“Morning,” Joanne called from behind the counter as he stepped inside.

He opened his mouth to respond when a man caught his eye. Tucked into a table in the back corner of the cafe, Howard’s friend was frantically scribbling in a notebook. He hadn’t seemed to pay any attention to Joanne’s greeting, which meant one of two things: either he hadn’t noticed Steve yet, or he didn’t care.

“Steve?”

“Oh. Right, sorry,” he mumbled. Joanne was looking up at him from behind her narrow glasses. “I’ll have a coffee, please. One milk, one—“

“Sugar, and a dash of cinnamon. I know.” She smiled at him. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Just a little chilled, is all.”

“Well look at you, hardly any meat on your bones! Bagels are fresh, and you’re gonna eat one.” Her lecture trailed off as she started preparing his order. Steve realized he’d been clenching his fists, and forced himself to breathe as he took a seat near the door. _One, two, three_ , he counted, pausing at the top and bottom of each breath the way his mom had taught him.

“Here you go, baby.” Joanne set his order down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Enjoy.”

Steve looked at the clock that hung over the counter. He figured it had probably been about five minutes since he walked in. It’d take about another five — probably ten, if he didn’t want to burn his tongue — before he could eat the bagel and down the coffee. Another minute to pay Joanne. If be could just get through these next sixteen minutes without drawing the man’s eye over here, the odds of making it home fight-free might actually be in his favour.

Luckily, the fresh bagel caused Steve’s stomach to rumble. It never ceased to amaze him that he could eat until his stomach was properly distended but still clock in at under 140 pounds soaking wet. He got to work, angling his body toward the window to hide his face.

“Don’t I know you?”

Steve froze, mouth full.

“Sorry, that was bad timing on my part,” the man said, taking the opposite seat. “And that was also a dumb question. What I should’ve led with is that I’m sorry.”

Steve’s tongue felt like it was suddenly growing and his lungs felt like they were shrinking, all of which was made even worse by the enormous bite he’d taken. He realized with sudden horror that perhaps this would be the end, right here. All his worrying about alleyway fights, getting caught with Bruce, or saying the wrong thing in front of Peggy was replaced with the certainty that he would die right here in Joanne’s, like a runt pig with an apple in its mouth.

“Uhm, are you okay? Your face is going kind of, uhm —“ the man gestured. “Red?”

On impulse, Steve’s legs kicked out. His eyes filled with tears.

“Holy shit! You’re choking!”

Steve started to shake his head, which only seemed to make things worse. He quickly changed to nodding, clutching at his throat. The corners of his vision were starting to go dark, when suddenly the man clapped him on the back, hard. Surprisingly, it did the trick and Steve spat the soggy wad of bagel out in his lap.

“Oh, God,” he muttered. He could feel his face and neck burning with humiliation, met with cool shock flowing through his body. He used a napkin to clean his lap.

“Holy shit,” the man said again, settling into his chair when he was convinced that Steve was in the clear. “You know I’ve imagined that sort of thing happening — hell, I’ve even written about it — but when it happens in front of you, it…”

“Yeah.” Steve finally took a good look at his rescuer, and noted that there seemed to be genuine concern lining the man’s face. “Thank you.”

“No problem, pal.” He waited a beat, then extended his right hand. “James, but everyone calls me Bucky.”

He shook it, adding “Steve.”

And there it was: the face, the fear, the unknown now had a name. They sat in a moment of awkward silence, Steve still trying to compose himself while Bucky politely pretended to be invested in a groove in the tabletop.

“So, uh, like I was saying before, I’m really sorry.” Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “I knew what Howard was gonna do, and I should’ve warned you.”

Steve contemplated this admission. “Well, I appreciate you saying that. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. But as far as I’m concerned, you don’t owe me anything. It’s not like you’re the one who punched me.”

“Yeah, well…it’s complicated. Sometimes you’re just as guilty even if it’s someone else’s fist.”

Steve studied him as he sipped at his coffee. Bucky seemed earnest, which wasn’t a word he would use often. There were bits of ink on his right hand, which he was massaging as he spoke. Cramps, Steve figured, very familiar with that annoying pain.

“Well, like I said, I appreciate you saying that.”

“Of course. Howard is a bastard at the best of times, but he just found out his fiancé’s expecting and I think the news sent him over the edge.” He paused, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Because the baby’ll be born out of wedlock, I mean.”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble, but a man whose first instinct is violence when he’s in hot water…that’s not a family man. And I think we both know that the reason he jumped me has nothing to do with that baby.” He lowered his voice. “Today it’s me, tomorrow it’s the next guy who spots the two of you getting cozy at the bar. What happens when _she_ finds out?”

Bucky held his gaze for a moment, and then retreated to pack his things. Steve checked the clock. It had been seventeen minutes.

“You’re right.” Bucky stood near the door. “It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed my mind before, I just haven’t worked out what I can do about it.”

Outside the rain had all but stopped.

Steve sighed.

“Care for a walk?”

* * *

“This isn’t the first time he’s threatened someone.”

They were sitting on a bench near Steve’s apartment building. Steve led them there knowing it was seldom used thanks to the fact it faced the remnants of a church that recently burned down. In a city full of benches, most people chose one with a better view.

Bucky lit a cigarette and held the pack out to Steve.

“Thanks, but I’ve got asthma.”

“No shit.” Bucky had just lit his, but he tapped it out on the arm of the bench and tucked it back in the pack.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Doesn’t hurt me to wait, but it might hurt you if I don’t.” He shrugged. “Anyway, Howard and I’ve known each other for a few years. We met through Maria, actually — his fiancée. She was friends with my sister, and they came around the house one night and, well… It sounds kind of stupid now, but it felt like we would never get caught.”

“You fooled around that first night?” Steve gawked.

“You don’t know Howard, but he’s very stubborn. And willful.” He let out a short laugh that sounded bitter to Steve. “Did I mention he can also be a bit of a bastard?”

“It may have come up.”

“Well, when there’s something he wants, he doesn’t like to wait around, which is always how we wind up here. My sister caught us that night, but she covered for me. There have been a few other people who’ve figured it out, but he’s never confronted anyone physically before you.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Bucky was studying the remnants of the church. The roof had caved in, and the cross that had rested at its peak landed perfectly upright among the wreckage. It caused quite a stir in the community, with some arguing that to disturb the site would be sacrilegious given the seemingly deliberate position of the cross. The last Steve had read was that construction had been delayed for the foreseeable future.

“That saying — ‘if you play with matches, you’re bound to get burned’ — that’s how it feels being around him. I just never know who will be first to catch a spark.” Bucky dug the toe of his shoe into the ground. “I don’t know if Maria expected something was going on between Howard and I or if she just needed someone to confide in, but she told me about the baby. That night you saw us at the bar I told him that it might be time for us to stop sneaking around.”

“But it didn’t work.”

“He said I was overreacting. Look — bottom line is that Howard saw you and panicked. I’m sorry for what he did, but you have my word it won’t happen again.”

He stood and took the pre-lit cigarette out of the pack. Steve found himself studying the ink stained creases of Bucky’s hands again. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, dark blooms swelling and constricting with the motions.

“And you?”

Bucky frowned. “What about me?”

“Are you going to stay?”

He lit the cigarette and took a long draw. He turned back to the church, letting the wind carry the smoke away from Steve.

“It was nice to meet you, Steve.”

Steve let him walk away in silence. When he disappeared around the corner, Steve couldn’t stop thinking about those hands, the nerves and the resentment and the compassion that spoke through their fine lines. What had just happened? The fear Steve felt when he first saw them flying across Bucky’s pages was foreign now, and all it had taken was the moment of panic in his shockingly blue eyes when he realized Steve might be in trouble to vanquish it.

The sky rumbled. Black clouds were rolling in beyond the church. He didn’t have a watch, but he figured he couldn’t have been out longer than an hour and a half. He sighed. Six hours to go. If he went back to the apartment now there was a good chance he’d wind up spending the better part of the afternoon fixated on their conversation, and he didn’t want to spend more money just to sit in a cafe.

With that thought, the wind started to pick up.

“Dammit.” He readjusted his bag so it was mostly concealed by his jacket, and hastily decided to go to the library.

He kept a quick pace, hoping to make the eight-block venture without finding himself in a downpour, all the while unbeknownst that later that evening, when he would return to the bench angry and drunk, he would wonder blearily whether it was the weather or those damned hands that settled his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've met!
> 
> To the people who've left kudos and subscribed: THANK YOU!!! It means the world to me. I'm hoping to start posting bi-weekly, or more frequently, if possible.
> 
> As always, any feedback is very welcome. <3


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